


Stick Your Heart Inside My Chest

by freakbook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Case Fic, Detective Noir, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Noirish, Not really graphic, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Rough Sex, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakbook/pseuds/freakbook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After The Fall, Jim and Sherlock have a tempestuous love affair. After the love affair, Jim is determined(ish) to watch Sherlock burn from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from I Know I Know I Know by Tegan and Sara.
> 
> The characters are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the situations and characters are based on the adaptation of this series, BBC Sherlock.
> 
> I own nothing. I am destitute but for my wit and wayward spirit.

Something about it doesn’t matter. Not at all. It's not remotely an important thing. 

Whenever Jim says it – which is often, because he can't help himself - there's a sensation of drowning. He flashes to water. The falls of the Reichenbach. He feels it viscerally. The water threading through his fingers, pulling and pushing in the violent chaos where opposing forces meet, filling and weighting the folds of his fine suit. He feels himself being battered by rocks and taken under. Because whatever it is between them, it doesn’t leave any marks in Sherlock. None that last. 

The way that delicate, pale skin purples under Jim’s steady, crushing fingers. The way his stoicism always belies itself so early on, his fingers nervously, repetitively tapping a rhythm on Jim’s nape. The way his neck curves and arches in an angry blush to chase the rough affection of Jim’s mouth. The full spectrum of sexual acts. (Always "for science.") The mornings after, with ten papers open in bed, Sherlock's head tucked comfortably ("You have people in customs, don't you?"), if irritably ("I know you don't really speak Czech"), against Jim's clavicle. 

Yet Sherlock always goes back to His Work. Rehashing. Knowing it hurts Jim and liking it. Trying to find a way he might've stayed in London, stayed a consulting detective. Hours in the dark with his eyes glued on himself, reflected in the computer screen, and when he finally pulls away his corneas are red with irritation and his cheeks are pink with heated pride. When he barricades himself in the tiny, dim study, refusing to shower, eat or dress himself properly, they both understand what he's saying: "You made me this way. You made me leave, stringing me up with all those games, like your marionette." When he emerges, with a database of furniture most likely to be used to house hidden compartments, he's saying: "But I really won. Sherlock Holmes is still alive."

One morning over breakfast he claims the ability to predict the relative guilt of suspected persons based on the behavior of their dogs. Dark eyes flicking up, then back down to his muesli, Jim calls him a doofus. 

When he comes home dirty, trouser leg torn at the knee by an angry Rottweiler, Jim tells him he loves him. He tells Sherlock what he is. And Sherlock stares blankly. More confused than upset, a confusion which hardens almost immediately into irritation. His scarf is off before he answers and he's intentionally tracking mud everywhere. He bursts. Because that's what Sherlock does when he doesn't understand. He shouts about missing John. He says, a note of disgust rising in his voice, that he could count on John to stitch a wound without becoming sexually aroused. 

When he leaves for good – for Serbia. For fucking Serbia, where his brother can rescue him... He’s pure as the driven snow. An angel. Passionate bruises and love bites disguised by marks of torture, washed away in the purifying waters of a bad, bad man’s fists.


	2. Chapter 2

In usual melodramatic fashion, Sherlock left him when it was raining. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to unsettle the darkness. Inside, their flat was getting broken into two opposing spaces: those of deepest shadow, stretching into corners, beyond chairs and tables, piles of books and Jim’s piano; and those disrupted by a steady suffusion of unsteady gray. It was the ephemeral creep of time and human worry. The visible pulse of Sherlock’s nerves and anxieties, taking hold of him, tearing him back to the world of the living.

Jim lay in bed, tucked up close to Sherlock’s side. It was still warm, even without him there, and he lazily dragged his fingers over the indentation as he listened to creaking floorboards. He was getting the normal things together – toothbrush, a few changes of underwear, tight trousers and tighter shirts, external hard drive, pretentious Victorian-era switchblade, pictures from a few crime scenes they’d crashed together, Stradivarius. Most would go in storage before he left Bucharest. They'd have to.

When he heard Sherlock working the zipper on his suitcase, Jim groaned and pulled himself up. The mattress squeaked softly. In the living room, he could hear the same floorboard creak twice.

He rubbed at his face a moment, letting the sharp pain between his eyebrows settle to a dull ache. The gray T-shirt he wore was warm from their shared heat, the way they slept close to each other. He could smell Sherlock everywhere as he walked barefoot through their flat. He yawned and scratched his chest, imagining how that scent would choke him once the source of it vanished.

The wind picked up and battered their old windowpanes, creating a brief din to cover the embarrassing silence.

Jim stopped in the kitchen, a tilt in his head as he stared unblinking at the floppy silhouette. Sherlock had a bend in his neck that spelled guilt. And Sherlock didn’t understand guilt. Which meant he was affecting something beyond himself and consequently reasoning from a point of uncertainty, vamping, filling a void he suspected would weaken him.

Jim placed his hand flat on the countertop, letting the rough whisper of callouses on marble draw Sherlock’s ear. It was a domestic sound, like someone setting down groceries or reorganizing a cabinet. He wasn’t in a powerful position, but he didn’t need to be – he’d never needed to be well-slept or well-dressed to launch a successful attack. 

Sherlock turned, eyes catching the light, though he stayed shadowed. His body only followed the turn reluctantly. Then the fire. Just a flicker, but it was there. That flash in his eye indicating he thought Jim might fight him, that tightening of muscle in anticipation of a physical altercation.

A question flashed in Jim’s mind – the engines were firing fast, but every joint creaked with the rust of sleep, letting things pass inspection with their harsh edges unblunted. His inner voice was whining. “Does he really not understand I’m letting him go?”

Jim buried his face in one hand, the after-flash of Sherlock’s shining, seaglass eyes still bright on his retina. He shuddered, summoning the strength to lever emotion into his voice, because he’d remember the words if Jim rendered them incomprehensible with sentiment, he’d remember the words and the sounds, just as Jim was saying them. A puzzle to be opened later, maybe decades later.

“No one’s ever going to love you like I love you, honey. I know you don’t understand that- but please- ”

The door closed softly, but quickly. Jim could hear Sherlock’s hurried steps echoing off stone, and then the pelting of rain on a moving, solid object outside.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock could be such a baby about so many things. So many memories of him with his coat collar turned up, walking several paces ahead. His hair always a mess afterwards, and him so irresistibly vain, he’d rush to the loo to fix it carefully before reappearing. 

And that alley in Berlin that smelled like piss, tile cleaner and wet dog. Jim’s hands on Sherlock’s damp lapels, feeling an urge to snake under for warmth but pulling back. And the sound: like every pipe in the city was breaking on top of them, trying to redirect the sudden downpour. 

“We’ll just stand here and wait, if you’re going to be a child,” he said, whatever anger he’d felt washing out of him with the sudden intimacy of enclosure. He paced back as Sherlock leaned against the wall to light a cigarette. 

Sherlock ran the fingers of his free hand through wet curls, wringing them out, grooming himself like a cat and not meeting Jim’s eye. 

Had there been anything else remotely as fascinating to look at, maybe Jim could’ve resisted the pull of Sherlock’s gravity, maybe he could’ve kept his eyes from the chaotic patterns of rain spooling through Sherlock’s fingers. But there wasn’t and he couldn’t. 

In a second he was in front of Sherlock again, clearing the moisture from his neck with the cuff of his coat, fingers brushing his pulse point. It was so new then – touching Sherlock – such a fascination. Like touching something unnatural, something that wasn’t meant to be possible – like feeling the skin of a black hole, like touching a man brought back from the dead.

At the moment of contact, Sherlock growled (something about not being a child) and batted Jim’s hand away. The cigarette fell between them, causing them both to curse and check their clothes for singe marks. 

Jim took a moment to really absorb the disappointment and then began to seethe. With a violent intake of breath he pushed his way back into Sherlock’s vision, his jaw thrust forward like a wild animal, his teeth set on edge, every muscle tensed and ready to strike.

Sherlock scrutinized him, a quirk in his lips betraying an urge to smile. Jim stayed primed and immobile, not once breaking. It was only a few seconds of squaring off before Sherlock gave a slight sound of acquiescence. His body shifted, making it clear he'd be letting Jim stay close this time, and then he set to work getting another cigarette lit, fingers moving with the dexterous insouciance of someone under no real threat. Jim’s eyes closed as he worked himself back to a place of control. His hand snaked its way into Sherlock’s coat, fingers curled against his warm, thrumming ribcage.

“Why don’t you like them, honey? Umbrellas.” His voice was calm now, awed into submission by the steadiness of Sherlock’s heartbeat. 

“No reason I should labor to cure my aversion. You enjoy yelling at me as much as you enjoy being pressed against me in dark alleys.”

Jim broke into a big Cheshire cat grin at that, but it dropped away as quickly. His eyes blinked closed as his mind handled the words. His voice was hushed when he spoke, words deliberate. “Not what I asked. And I never said I wanted to cure it, Sherlock.” 

Strong fingers ran through Jim’s hair, stroking it back. “Hmm. That's right, you like me mad, don't you? Our shared insanity. It keeps me in hell with you.” 

Jim huffed, pulling back to shoot Sherlock a look of deep incredulity. “Yes. How fortunate. It’s our own private tower in a fairyland, darling.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

Sherlock’s brow clouded over with confusion. He tilted his head, trying to hide his discomfort at having been found unsatisfactory. “I’m practically repeating your words, Jim.” 

Jim nudged into Sherlock’s front and grumbled, “Well, you’re not saying them right.” He just wanted to touch and go blank. Sherlock's hands were on Jim's waist, steadying him a bit awkwardly. Jim's mouth was against Sherlock’s neck, following the vibrations of his own breath, kissing and sucking a messy path to the hollow behind Sherlock’s ear until he drew an uncertain apology from Sherlock’s lips.

~

Jim cursed and pressed his palm to his heart, then slammed his head against the glass doors of the phone booth, nearly hard enough to shatter them. 

It was dead night and the street across from the storage unit was deserted. It was a day after Sherlock’s departure, give or take a few hours, and Jim found himself in a phone booth, a crumpled, purple Post-It in one hand.

“Pay Phone. Wait.” 

It was still raining. 

Finally the phone rang – an unnerving, high-pitched trill on a lonely street. Anyone else would’ve answered it convulsively, just for the silence. But Jim let his nerves ache a minute, staring at the surrounding street, eyes unblinking, scanning each darkened window for the barest flutter. There were none.

Three rings and he answered, not speaking, clutching the receiver with contained fury, raising it slowly to his ear. His eyes were hooded over. He made no effort to stop the irritated groan in his throat.

The voice on the other end chuckled sadistically, but didn’t introduce itself.

Jim stared at the street, the rain making patterns and rivers in the broken cobblestones. He sighed softly and refocused his vision to read a few personals scrawled in marker on the dusty panel. There were any number of things one could do to suffer through silence, to wait out the unknown, to make the void speak first and define itself.

It wasn’t long. And when it spoke, it was equal parts male and delighted: “Pity. I’d hoped you’d think it was him, even for the briefest of moments. Disappointment of that sort… quite excruciating.” 

Jim relaxed slightly. It wasn’t Mycroft. 

“A better start would be begging for your continued existence,” Jim muttered, voice going dull with ironic lack of interest. “Touch a hair on his head, blah blah.” 

“Yes. Yes, exactly, Jimmy. I’m so pleased you’re catching up.”

“If you’re going to patronize me, at least do it faster. I have a day ahead.”

“Ah, yes. Plans to curl up on your lover’s side of the bed, listen to his violin recordings and weep?”

Jim hesitated, more intrigued than pained.

“Nooo,” he said slowly, speaking as if conveying a deep courtesy to a very obnoxious child. He turned in the booth, eyes raking up the street, checking for but not finding any signs of change under the rain. “Jewel... You know… All these foolish games of ours. They’re tearing me apart.”

A slow chuckle on the other line, then the sound of china lifting from a dish and a rude slurp. “You’re going to work for me now. Periodically. Like Irene. Before her untimely… loss of head.”

Jim broke into a grin. “And you finally noticed my snake’s body wasn’t dying, Nussy?”

“Waiting, James. Waiting.” He could hear fingers drumming on a solid oak desk.

“I’m flattered. I always thought you’d go after Mycroft Holmes, given half a chance.”

“Always so inquisitive, but never asking direct questions. That’s the Jim Moriarty I remember. In time I can have you both. Control both sides of the board. White and black. Now… if you refuse… which you won’t. That’s where I’ll go. Unnecessarily ruffle his stuffed shirt with… personal anecdotes. But seeing as you’re the one with the most knowledge at the moment, the most secrets to protect… You can be the plug, to staunch the flow, to keep me from telling Big Brother and friends what naughtiness their dear Sherlock’s been up to. Keep this little dalliance… this hard-on for criminals… and /male/ criminals at that… Tsk, tsk… This reputation-ruining deception… from spreading through his allies like a cancer. Buckling the supports beneath him. You know how he needs them. Without you.”

Throughout the long-winded speech, Jim’s hand was in his pocket, typing blind on his mobile, eyes once more on the graffitied pane though he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing Sherlock on top of him, riding him for the first time. Probably losing his virginity, though he’d never admitted it verbally. He’d made Jim promise never to tell anyone he wasn’t asexual. Some perfect storm of pride and shame. And then he’d left for a week and a half to chart the movements of high-class prostitutes in and around Berlin. 

When Magnussen was finally done talking, he swallowed thickly. Jim’s mind was a galaxy in an expanding universe, quantifying and measuring the composition of distant stars.

He kept his voice hollow, though the words admitted a weakness. There was no denying it, that sentiment had destabilized him. The extent of the damage, however, wouldn’t be clear to an outsider. “This is a case by case arrangement. There’s only a short list of things I’m willing to do to protect this.”

“Mm. Of course it is, Jim. For now. My, your head sniper looks awfully young.”

Jim snorted, not taking the bait, not turning his head in Sebastian’s direction. “So people say.”

“Robbing that cradle, hm? Well, I’ll leave that pressure point for another day. I’ll be in touch.”

Jim gave a groan of disgust and hung up the phone.


End file.
